1800
by NakamuraRei
Summary: Significant events of the 19th century.
1. Prologue

Let's talk of dreams,

Built over centuries,

Ambition for glory and wealth.

Let's watch them die

Before their contractors

Their engines still roaring,

their souls still vacant.

Let's see the beginning

Of every dawn of every day

Of every year

Of every age

And hear those dreams spoken again.

Here begins 1800.


	2. Chapter 1: The two children of Europe

Once upon a time in a small insignificant continent, there lived two children. They were both hundreds of years old.

One lived in sunshine and warmth. He loved to paint and engage with any art. Being a silly, beautiful little boy, he was adored and desired. His ancestor was a great conquerer, who dominated the lands across the sea. He himself was no great conquerer, he was divided, he was young and susceptible to the greater powers around him. his name was Italy.

The other was very similar, in youth and division alike. He admired the boy's ancestor and sought to be just like him. But he was different.

He had been crowned by the Pope centuries earlier, a king and a knight. He had been conquering and warring early on. He dreamed of the other boy's sunshine and warmth, the beauty of his land and his art. Though sick at heart, he pressed on with the ceaseless battles. He was dying.

His name was the Holy Roman Empire.

His end was coming soon.


	3. Chapter 2: The sick man of Europe

He kept many treasures, the sick man. You could tell by his presence, towering in a tuban, the furnishings of white and vermillion, face obscured by a porcelain mask. They say his palaces of golden domes and colossal minarets were immense and opulent, gardens with fountains like a desert oasis, tiled with gems of everlasting turquoise and lapis lazuli.

In his ailing state, bedridden, hot with a gnawing fever, coughing up blood of conflicts past, he dreamed of his brilliant youth. His golden age where he reigned supreme, where he flourished along with his people. Unaware of why those days seemed so distant and detached, (as well as what befell him to induce such a foul disease) he preferred to keep to his dreams and believe he was as great as he was before. Slowly, they became material, taking form within the grasp of his palms. The fertile lands he conquered, the fear in the eyes of sultans and caliphs as he toppled them, the nights submerged in the stars, joining the astronomers as they marvelled and unfolded the miracles of God. But only in his mind these features maintained solidity.

As well as treasures inanimate, he kept flesh and blood. A perverse harem of children, territorial gems, never given the chance to grow for he desired all to remain the same as they were in his bygone days. They were stunning to behold, all bright eyed, gathered from the far reaches of the Mediterranean to the valleys of the Nile and the beautiful Balkans. Their rosy flesh soft and supple, robed with silks that would flutter with the breeze like emerald seas, as they danced for him in the lavished courts, complementing the high ceilings draped in Persian carpets.

He simply wished to possess all that he used to, to cling onto his own legacy. Everything exactly as it should be.

The children grew rebellious. His weakness was apparent. One by one, cloaked in the shadows of night, guided by the starlit sky, they escaped to their own lands, waving their banners high and proud. All proclaimed their freedom. Struggling, the sick man ran out desperately still tugging on his bed sheets, each step drunk with fatigue. All were beyond his reach, removed by time and place, at their dawn while he remained at dusk. He collapsed, knees jammed on the pitiless tiles. With a chiming clash, the falling china mask shattered. It revealed the face of an unshaven man with sad olive eyes, each feature creased in frustration, anger and hurt. With a sudden jolt, his coughing frenzy returned. He held his tired body in shame at the pain of each throat lurch. The sun rose mourningly, pale sunbursts piercing the darkness.

His name was the Ottoman Empire.

The children are nations new.


	4. Chapter 3: The great matrimony of Europe

For years on end, she had been nothing but a servant, catering to the whim of her young master. Her soft brown hair and brilliant hazel eyes a pleasure to behold and living beauty in these hallowed halls, but a servant none of the less.

There had always been an emotional boundary between them although they were both raised together in this large mansion. The aristocrat remained professional in his approach, upholding his higher status without abusing it. Favoritism was unacceptable. Well, before he met her, he had never been in love. It began with innocent messages hidden in the garden. Then, private late evening concerts with songs composed and dedicated to her name. And uncharacteristically, as staff left and human resources were low, washing dishes alongside each other and mundane chores that only accelerated their ignited passions.

Finally, they reached a compromise. They were to be wedded. The crowds cheered and trumpets flourished. Never had such she been so elated and jovial, to see her groom at the podium with the pride of a king. Never had she garbed such a gorgeous gown with woven beads forming lilies and roses. As she floated down the aisle, to unite with her beloved, to take oaths with the priest as holy binder there was only one who believed that this wedding was his worst nightmare. He was a young man donning a military uniform. Never mind, that he had been in love with her since they were children, but united he would have to face a powerful enemy. He slipped out of the ceremony in frustration. That day she became a queen. Together they were Austro-Hungarian Empire. But like all things in this life, their bonds are only temporary.


	5. Chapter 4: He who Europe turned against

He had endured so much. He had endured a war of almost lasting a century, another of thirty and a revolution that shook the monarchy. Like a phoenix anew immersed in devouring flames yet not set alight, he grew strong from it. Too strong. For his neighbours feared his voracious hunger would lose restraint and ravage the continent.

Europe bowed to his power. They cowered in his wake, paid homage to him in treasures great and mortal souls. It was easier that way, to submit rather then rebel for his military marched the lands with such devastating force it was too much of a risk. Well, unless you lived across the sea.

He was a rather lonely islander raised by particularly brutal older brothers, as the runt he was the least expected to latter dominate over a quarter of the world. That particular neighbour was the first to retaliate. At Trafalgar, the conquerer and his conquistador sank. His downfall was approaching.

After witnessing that defeat, they united against him. Those who paid homage to him now laid waste to him. He had lost everything in Waterloo. Completely defenceless against the swords that ensnared him, he could neither move forward or back or escape from the sides. This was the end.

A council was assembled by the victorious powers. Their intent: to discuss how Europe would be reborned after his reign. Instead in the majestic dance halls of Vienna, they waltzed.

France was there. He gave a throaty chuckle. And in a manner much like Puck, the mischievous sprite from Shakespeare's comedy, he quoted as an actor playing his part, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"


	6. Chapter 5: The man who lost everything

Why have an empire restricted by land when you can rule the seas? That's what he thought. A long time ago, he conquered the roaring waves , bent their will to his, sent white horses to far off lands he was foolish to call his own. He pillaged the palaces of precious metals and forced the conquered to mine for more. His armada was splendid, pageants of the ocean, it would be matched by not other. Like the Spanish summer sun it would never dim or burn out, forever shining beyond anyone's reach. This was his Siglo de Oro, The Golden Age.

Except by the same islander that defeated France. Sabotaged and raided by pirates, he was left wounded and bankrupt. Continually drained by wars and rebellions following, he lost more than even mountains of silver could replenish. Soon, he was defeated by the ones he once ruled. Let's see him now. A gentleman with dark tousled hair, a lovely smile and rough hands. He earned his living making fake flowers. When his finger pricked against the needles, he paid no heed. He remains twirling the thorny stem in his hand.

His name is Spain.


	7. Chapter 6: The addict

He couldn't figure out how long he had been there, lying on the ground in the dark with his faithful huffing bag. He drew a longing breath into the pipe, intoxicated with the intense fumes.  
A few hours perhaps? Maybe days, maybe months or even possibly years but he didn't care. All that mattered was the drug. This dreamlike state where nothing felt so real or so false was a bliss. Ever since the strange islander with sickly yellow hair and ill green eyes offered the seeds of a foreign flower that cried milky tears in exchange for the riches of the secluded kingdom of the East, vibrant silks that slip through one's fingers as smoothly as water, ceramics blown to such elegance that pots glowed with ghost-like translucency. He would have given everything he had for it. He gave all that he had. Including his dignity.  
His mind was poisoned. He ignored the ongoings above . The violent suppression of his people to stop who's heinous trade by the white men. Attempts to overthrow the monarchy. It was cruel, feeding drugs to weaken a once powerful nation to comply with selfish business. But that is the will of men. Not even empires can function without them.

They say he had to be drugged to sign the Unequal Treaties, that tore his colosaal empire to shreds and served it on a dish to Europe.

His name was China. He is ancient and tired. But like everything that draws breath, dying is the last thing he will ever be doing. He could last for another five thousand years or so...


	8. Chapter 7: The Black Ships have come

The steam-powered ships

break the halcyon slumber

of the Pacific;

a mere four boats are enough

to make us lose sleep at night.

-a famous Japanese _kyoka_-

He awoke to the rumbling of engines. His first reaction would have been to wrap himself in a blanket and hope that none comes knocking. He was agoraphobic after all, had been for the last two hundred years. Instead, he stood. He had been irked by the constant pestering. It was about time, he thought, after hearing of how these foreigners exploited his neighbour with such deviousness. It was about time the Western powers set their sights towards dominating us, apparently one tiny continent wasn't enough for them. It was about time he confronted them. He glared at his _shoji_ door, the translucent rice paper just a stage for a monstrous shadow play. Silhouetted against it were merely skeletons of vessels, dragons of the sea spewing heavy steam into the bloody sunrise. It was as if they had come from another age, or was it just him being stuck in a limbo?

A servant slid his door open, it was humorous for him to see the meek little boy with a shadow of an unnatural beast. The servant got to his knees and bowed politely, "_Oyashima-sama_, they wish to meet with you." He thanked him. As the servant left, he slipped on his _yukata_ and tied on his _hakama_, plain and humble. He would meet these men as equals not his colonists. He slid the door open, squinting his eyes at the immensity of dawn, Edo Bay with it's waves crashing against the black steel of the ship's hull as if the Pacific detested the barbarians as well. Walking down the docks, in front of a crowd of astonished faces, he examined the ships more carefully, notably the array of artillery that bordered each ship's perimeter. This wasn't just a show of supremacy. This was negotiation as it had been most of the time. Brutal. Threatening. It was all a play of power. Like a game of _shogi_, moving his pawns across the board, he would shift the balance, decisively almost undetectably.

He met what appeared to be two generals. It was a convincing disguise he admitted, peering at the young tall man with blue eyes rimmed with spectecles. His golden hair had an ahoge that just wouldn't stay down, it was a charming addition to his general boyishness. He knew he was looking at a man and his country. There was a foolish, idealistic look in his eyes, definitely not part of the Old World. He would play their game of 'gunboat negotiation' for now. He would have to adapt to their techniques. He would have to be a conquerer to not be the conquered.

He is now known as Japan.


End file.
